


An Imposed Distance

by meatsuit



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Meteor, Unfortunate Biological Realities, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 21:19:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meatsuit/pseuds/meatsuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a messy first time, Kanaya discovers Rose is allergic to her genetic fluid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Imposed Distance

The first time she sees your bulge she compares it to a trackball on a mouse.

“Urgh,” you say, fighting the urge to slam your legs closed out of embarrassment. “That's a hackneyed thing to say.”

Rose is purposefully nonchalant, lying horizontal on the bed-sized velvet pillow she alchemized especially for the occasion, her head propped up on her elbow.

“Why that particular critique?” she asks. Rose's proud lavender gaze gives her the air of an empress in the midst of conquering vast territories of prostrate would-be devotees. She smiles and bites her lower lip at the way you squirm when her fingers begin to explore you.

“Ah,” you gasp. “Um. Comparing shame globes to-” she's started to circle the base of your bulge in slow, maddening strokes and it's hard to breathe, much less talk- “to- to, um. Those outdated cursor manipulation devices. On Alternia the joke had been-” you try to stifle your moan, but it raises a few octaves instead- “repeated incessantly.”

She shrugs, removing her hand from between your legs to gesture with it as she talks. Oh, fuck. 

“I apologize for blindly appropriating the traditional genital aphorisms of your people. Perhaps I should have voiced my initial impression, instead: your junk is also not unlike an oversized clitoris.”

You make a noise somewhere between a laugh and a wimper, confused, and try to grab her hand so you can shove it back where you're aching for her the most.

“What's a clitoris?”

“Exactly,” she deadpans. You don't have enough time to parse whatever the hell she meant before she takes pity on you. Rose shifts upright, scoots closer, and starts massaging your globe again. This time she's more sure, all of her fingers stroking clockwise in firm, fluid movements.

Between your quickening breaths you warn her that there will be a mess, and in the interest of keeping your new bed pristine, inform her repeatedly that your bucket is right on the floor next to you. Rose, giddy at the sight of your now trembling body, only laughs and kisses your hip.

“Loosen up, Kanaya, you're doing fine,” she murmurs, consoling. She slides her other hand up to your waist and grins like she knows something you don't. “Relax. And kindly shut up.”

You take pleasure in obeying her. It takes about a minute, but once the tension in your muscles dissolves you are overpowered by the divine pressure of Rose's fingers. Your focus quickly escalates into a thrilling obsession. You close your eyes to better feel her, and your moans edge deeper and longer as you start lifting your hips into her hand, eager for more.

Genetic material lubricates the opening of your nook, getting thicker with each swirl of her fingers. Rose notices the moisture sticking to her palm and swipes her fingertips lightly over your opening, smearing the wetness upwards. She presses into your slick globe once more, faster this time, and you can hear her increasingly ragged breathing syncopated alongside your own gasps.

“Rose,” you breathe, your throat drawing out the vowel against your will.

She whispers, “Kanaya,” then, “Oh, God,” as if she's the helpless one, as if she's the one lying on her back. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, anxious to see her. She blinks hard against the shifting glare of your light: once, twice, tearing her gaze away from your body. She was staring at you, observing the way your muscles are shaking, the way you're straining your hips into her with each sweep of her fingers. 

Her face betrays her fraying control. Rose looks into your eyes, now, her own half-lidded, her cheeks flushed pink underneath them. Her mouth hangs open, and after she swallows it goes slack again. She's forgotten all pretense of confidence. She looks so beautiful. Perfect, even like this, and you reach out to her, pressing your fingers to her cheek.

“Um,” she says. She's staggering onto her knees, bending her body towards you. You spread your legs wider, thinking she wants to kneel in the space between them, but she takes her hand off your bulge to pull one of your thighs closer.

Why isn't Rose communicating what she wants? You manage to gasp, “What,” but it doesn't sound like a question, or much of a word.

After a troubled pause she positions herself over your hips, a knee on either side. Her naked body towers over yours, her face hardening with determination as she reaches one of her hands down toward the gash between her legs. When you both undressed not long ago you were too self-conscious to ask her about it, and you're beginning to regret it.

She hastily spreads the lips apart with her jade-stained fingers and you note with some surprise that the inside is pink. It's all very strange and obscene, the way her coarse hair obscures this rosy valley of draping, delicate skin. You want to map this unknown landscape with your fingers, or perhaps explore her with your tongue; you briefly think of surging forward and pinning her underneath you to accomplish this desire.

But Rose only allows you a short, unsatisfying glimpse before she lowers herself onto you and grips your waist. You suck in a breath at how soft and warm and wet Rose feels against your bulge. Of course she's wet, and of course her genetic material is clear. Why did you expect anything else?

“I need you, Kanaya,” she moans, and rocks forward. “I need this.”

Her uncensored expression, wide-eyed and slack-jawed and blushing, is a tacit addendum: “I don't know what I'm doing.”

You don't, either. If her weight on your globe wasn't generating such overwhelming heat, you could articulate that to her. Instead, you whimper something resembling her name and place both hands on her hips, digging your nails into the flesh there. 

She grinds into you again, breathing hard, beginning a tentative rhythm. The both of you are getting slicker. Her sensitive pink skin is smooth, almost flat as it slides against your bulge, and the way her thick outer folds are teasing the base of your globe is driving you crazy. You never want her to stop. If she stopped you would again be bereft of an important thing you had lost when she first touched you, something she alone can return to you. You're nothing but a hollow shell, and Rose is all substance. 

“Kanaya,” she keens, louder this time. She's more confident, rocking faster and holding your gaze.

You suspect saying your name brings her pleasure. Even in the most mundane and sexless of circumstances she overuses it: “Kanaya, you alchemize a perfect grubloaf,” (but how would she know), “Kanaya, I'm bored. What do you want to do, Kanaya?,” “Kanaya, you're the most effective book light I've ever encountered.”

Now, “Kanaya,” between harried gasps, senselessly repeated as if your name is all she knows. It makes a thrill smash through you. You moan and guide her hips into you with accelerating urgency. You remember Rose likes it when you touch her breasts, so you lift your hand to tease her nipple with your thumb. 

She looks lost again, wild. Her back stiffens and she lets out a cry on the last syllable of your name. The fluid movements of her hips shorten to staccato thrusts, and her hands are suddenly everywhere, groping your shoulders, your breasts, your stomach. It's a futile effort to keep herself steady. You let her ride it out, hauling yourself up to rub a comforting hand over her back as she orgasms.

Rose, upon winding down, climbs off of your hips and flops down beside you. Her cheeks are flooding with the brightest shade of red you've ever seen her flush, and she's smiling at you as if she's in a haze. Though you made sure she didn't drink a drop of human soporifics this evening her demeanor strongly resembles that giddy, lazy complaisance she adopts when intoxicated. You experience an acute rush of pleasure knowing that she brought herself to this state as she called your name and clung to you. 

Despite her exhaustion she manages to press her lips to yours with enough passion to remind you how much genetic material has built up inside you. Your interior fluid sack is burdened enough to press against the wall of of your nook. You need to pail so badly it's getting painful.

“My bucket,” you say, breaking the kiss. You expect Rose will be too lethargic to assist you so you abandon her to scramble to the side of the pillow where you stashed it. 

Rose's voice sounds husky when she drawls, “I'm sure it's safe.”

That isn't helping! You're having too much trouble positioning yourself over the bucket properly to answer her. You fumble with the rim, slide down to the floor, and try to ignore how cold the tile is as you frantically arrange and rearrange your gawky legs.

“Oh,” she says.

Seconds later, you're on your knees, having wrangled the bucket between your thighs. Rose comes behind you, apparently not minding the distance you put between yourself and the bed to keep the fabric from staining. She wraps her arms around your waist. 

She says, “I want to help,” rubbing her palm over your inner thigh. Her breath is tickling your ear.

“Is this all right, Kanaya?”

Is she stalling on purpose?

“Yes,” you beg. “Please!” 

You know Rose has been snooping around your embarrassing novel collection, so you expect she already understands how pailing works. You don't expect Rose to shove two whole fingers into your nook. This would have hurt if you weren't so wet; you've never been able to fit more than one digit inside yourself. Shame heats your cheeks at how good this feels: usually only a kismesis would try to push their partner's anatomy to its limits like this. That cultural detail must have evaded Rose in her otherwise thorough perusal of dubious Alternian erotica.

Your skin strains around her knuckles, refusing to stretch, and a burning pleasure floods through your nook. The rim of the bucket bites into your palm as you tighten your grip, afraid you'll topple over. When your thighs begin to shake Rose squeezes your waist with her free arm. She breathes with you for a second, resting her forehead at the base of your neck. She lets you get used to the girth of her fingers, waiting as you huff and swallow and try to relax your muscles.

She starts to move, and a low chur rumbles from your windpipe at the feel of her tight inside you, her nails scraping against the walls of your nook, her thumb grinding against your bulge. Your sack is so desperately full.

“Rose,” you pant, struggling. “Deeper. Please.”

On the next thrust she manages to push her fingers where they need to go. Something inside you shifts, and you can feel your sack beginning its slow release of genetic material. Rose realizes you're pailing too late, and you can feel the fluid urging to escape past her hand.

She rushes to yank her fingers out of you. The sudden emptiness is a shock, but the first warm spurt of genetic material splashing into the bucket is a welcome release. Low, desperate cries throb from your throat as waves of liquid surge out of your nook. Some of it doesn't make it to the bucket at all, flowing down the back of your thighs and pooling on the tile where you and your matesprit are kneeling.

When the last of it drips into the pail Rose supports your weight and you listen to your own shallow breathing, the rapid beating of your heart.

She says, “Are you all right, Kanaya?” and reaches a hand around to pull the bucket away.

It's a sluggish effort, turning to face her, but you manage it. There's jade everywhere. It's making your legs slide together, and you're not too keen on spreading it around. Reluctant to get too close to Rose, you gingerly touch her knees.

“I'm fine. Well. Immensely satisfied,” you rasp. Rose's concern softens into the sweetest smile.

“Come on,” she says, and helps you up. She leads you back to the oversized pillow, reassuring you that there's always enough grist to alchemize a new one if it's irreparably stained. You're too tired to protest. You let her guide you down, and as she wraps her arm around you, you realize you don't actually care if more genetic material gets smeared onto Rose's skin. You look good on her.

Rose has filled you and emptied you; now she holds you close. A sweet alien scent mingles with the familiar musk of your genetic material. She tangles her legs with yours, even though they're sticky, and beams at you: proud, loving. She brushes fingers still wet from your pailing over your jaw, then over your lips, spreading jade onto you, kissing you. You raise an eyebrow. 

“Are you sure you don't care about the mess?”

You hope she got the sarcasm. Rose just laughs and kisses you again.

\---------------------

You jolt awake in utter darkness, instinctively groping for Rose. She's gone, probably using the load gaper. The velvet is still warm from Rose's body heat and you lazily run your hand over the fabric, missing the sound of her breathing. You wonder how long it's been since you dozed off.

Seized by a sudden bout of restlessness, you allow yourself to fill the room with light. You're filled with belated regret: the genetic material looks ugly smeared on your skin, spotted on the pillow, streaked onto the floor. It's dried on your legs, tight and uncomfortable, and you unstick them, grimacing. No wonder Rose left: she wanted to bathe. You wonder why she didn't invite you.

You tentatively cover yourself with a towel, making your way through the halls to the nearest ablution block. You think you hear something as you're stepping off the transportalizer, and once the mechanical ringing fades you're absolutely sure. The tile walls that surround the nearest ablution trap are amplifying muffled whimpers, high-pitched over the thundering of running water.

“Hello,” you call, hovering near the open doorway. “Rose?”

The whimpering suddenly stops.

“Kanaya?”

It is Rose. You rush into the block, wondering what is wrong, and Rose reacts to your entrance with extreme, unusual anxiety. She's clean, and so is the water filling the trap, but her skin is inflamed with rashes. She twists away from you, as if to hide it, but it's difficult to obscure how much of her body is tinged bright purple.

A sympathetic moan escapes from your throat as you rush to her side. Her legs are particularly bad, her dark skin marred with huge, splotchy patches of color. Both of her hands are streaked with purple, but there's almost no trace of her correct skin tone on her right hand. Even her lip is swelling. She's got her legs splayed open and you realize, with horror, that her genitals are likely in a lot of pain, too.

Distress pulses from her throat as she speaks, making her tone waver dangerously. “I think I'm allergic to your genetic material,” she says, smiling ineffectually, and you notice she's crying. She starts rubbing her legs in frantic, imprecise movements.

You feel a sharp pang of shame. You wish you could touch her, but your hands are still stained with jade.

“Oh, Rose. I'm sorry.”

She shrugs, trying to keep her breathing even as she uses her hands to gather water, repeatedly pouring it over herself.

“I never reacted to your skin or saliva. It was natural to assume your other body fluids would behave the same way.”

“That's a very reasonable way of looking at it,” you say. She sniffs, then laughs. It's an unnerving reaction, given her transparent pain. “But this is my fault. I forgot about the poison.”

She's trying to wring the purple off of her hands, now, and turns her head to stare at you. “What?”

You are uncertain about how to best respond; you tentatively decide upon a historical approach.

“Proto-trolls, being primitive, had no protocol whatsoever and therefore no mass-regulated collection system. Each concupiscent pair would fill hand-made bowls of leaves and mud.”

You run your hand along the rim of the trap, rubbing at the dried genetic material there. You're aware that this explanation is already too lengthy for an itchy Rose, who's begun rocking back and forth as she massages her legs again. You wish you could do something, other than telling her unpleasant things.

“Of course, the pair's subsequent migration to the mother grub would be punctuated by many obstacles. Various mammalian beasts would try to consume the slurry. It would have proven a fragrant, protein-packed snack.”

She laughs. “I suppose I must search elsewhere for an adequate protein source, then, if a less fragrant one,” she says, sounding less agitated. If you weren't swelling with pity for her now you would think the comment condescending.

“Proto-trolls were therefore encouraged to develop poisons that would discourage hoofbeasts and the like from eating their genetic material,” you continue. “These toxins remain even as civilized collection protocol has rendered them obsolete. I incorrectly assumed you would be immune to them.”

You look at Rose again. She's frowning. “It didn't occur to you that it might hurt me?”

“Of course not. You're not an animal.”

Quiet, Rose turns off the faucet, then leans back to submerge herself in the water. It's hard to gauge her reaction. Her furrowed brow could signify offense, but it's likely just a symptom of her discomfort. She spreads her legs as far as they can go and scratches at her swollen lip. You feel very guilty.

“I'm going to the trap next door to clean myself up,” you say, standing.“I'll do it quickly, because I want to clean our mess and make you a comfortable pile once you're finished bathing. Okay?”

She nods. “Thank you.”

There's an adjacent stall containing another ablution trap, and as you hang your towel over the wall you hear Rose's voice echoing off the tile.

“I did enjoy our evening, Kanaya,” she says. “I don't regret a thing.”

You wish you felt the same way.

**Author's Note:**

> This old(ish?) fic was inspired by [a kink meme prompt](http://homesmut.dreamwidth.org/39135.html?thread=43215071#cmt43215071/). Might as well post it here! Why not, in this relative Rosemary drought. Unfortunately I never quite reached the meat of the plot before I became preoccupied with my thesis, but I may continue this story some day.
> 
> Constructive criticism is always appreciated, but praise shall be graciously accepted.


End file.
